Mirror Image
by The Aeolian Mode
Summary: What if roles were reversed? What if Christine was the Opera Ghost, and Erik the protege dancer and singer? Readers beware, this is not a tale of gushy romance scenes. It is a tale of a woman scorned by fate, and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...
1. A Note

_So,_

_I'm in college now. It's an art school, and the literature program here is awfully invigorating. It's been restoring my love of writing, and with the recent free time I've had due to the coming holidays, I've read a lot of old favourites. One in particular was Susan Kay's "Phantom". I've highlighted, memorized, and performed sections of it for Acting classes… It's thoroughly carved a space in my heart. Through Kay, I've been opened up to a world of the Phan universe. I've read Gaston Leroux's novel both in French and English. I've seen the musical countless times; my friends and I sing it frequently whenever we're in a car together._

_…so why haven't I written a single phanfiction yet? It's been four years since I've read that special book… even longer still have I seen the musical. Instead of Disney, my dad and I watched musicals together. This story has always been one of my favourites because I could relate to it… I was an outcast for most of my life due to being an artist… I'd sit alone in a corner, reading a Harry Potter book in about two hours. In class time, I'd always sit in the back and simply draw. I didn't really socialize. I played the violin well; head of the class. I hated math. I hated people._

_Inspired by the greatest love story ever told, (NO, not Romeo and Juliette), I humbly give you this tale. _

_...my real name, given to my by my parents is_

_...Ericka_


	2. Chapter One: New Opera, Old Faces

TAP, TAP, TAP

A man rapped on the maestro's music stand. He was dressed like a businessman, not like someone that attended the Opera Populaire frequently. Two men, looking even less like they belonged followed behind him, whispering to each other. Behind them was a third person, but Erik couldn't exactly tell who it was. He saw hints of a blue dress, but other than that, she was unknown. Erik stopped mid-step slowly, his hands barely touching the ballet girl's waist in front of him. They were about to do a complex lift and turn in the second song of act two. He was the third in the chorus line of dancers. Luckily for him, he hadn't raised his partner quite yet. The man in front of him, however, was now standing awkwardly with a thin girl raised above his head, crinoline tutu in his face.

"Ahem.."

"Monsieur Le Ferve! I am _rehearsing._" The small, old man on the podium protested, waving around his ivory stick, gesturing to the hodgepodge of costumed dancers on the stage.

"Monsieur Reyer, Monsieur Chagny, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I can have your attention, thank you…" the manager trailed off. He cleared his throat and looked about the stage, waiting for the actors to gather round the floor-lights downstage. The dance to the left of Erik put his partner down with a soft thud as her toe shoes hit the wooden stage.

"As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement." He clasped his hands together nervously, glancing around the entire Opera, from the seats to the rafters as if someone, or something would punish him for interrupting the practice.

_Odd, considering that he just mentioned that he's aware of the gossip. In other opera theaters, the management would yell and scream at his cast for spreading rumors. It would be like LeFerve to be a coward about it, however….He is a rather insignificant man…_ Erik's blue eyes turning cold as his lips became a hard line.

"…I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre." With this, the two aforementioned men stepped from behind the former manager, leading a beautiful blonde angel of a woman. "…And we're deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Vicomtess de Giry."

By this time, Raoul, one of the only sensible men in the ballet, had made his way over to me. Whispering, I could feel his infectious smile, "…she's so... beautiful." And it was true. Megan had always been a pretty girl. She was about a year younger than I, yet still had the face of a cherubic child. Her body, however, was nothing immature... she had curves hidden beneath her taffeta-blue dress. The last I had seen of her, she was a five year old sniveling girl. She had been crying all day because my father and I were moving. Meg's blue eyes were piercing my soul, due to them being red and swollen. I remember that she didn't cry prettily; her nose had been running profusely.

"My parents and I are honored to support all the arts," she spoke, with a tender, delicate manner. It had the tenor of a the small, fragile girl I once knew, but had the authority of a member of high society. "Especially the world-renowned Opera Populaire." She finished, beaming white, perfect teeth at all of the cast and orchestra.

_Meg… I remember when you taught me, the son of a fiddler how to waltz... and I almost got shot when we were discovered together in the stables, laughing about how you thought I would have a chance of auditioning to be a part of the workshop, here at the opera…_

"Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli our leading soprano for five seasons now." Leferve continued, gesturing to the ostentatiously dressed woman that was glaring daggers at the beautiful, delicate flower that was Meg. That "soprano" was no more than a groomed parrot that squacked, strutting across the stage. I had seen parrots before when my father had taken me to Persia to play. They were more beautiful and _quiet_ than her. Even the untrained ones. Pity.

"Bravo! Bravo!" Carlotta's fat lover cried from somewhere backstage as he entered. He walked to the center stage and stood right in front of me, applauding for the diva standing downstage, right.

"…Signor Ubaldo Piangi." The former manager continued, undaunted by the outburst.

"An honour, Signor." Meg bat her eyelashes as she looked at the obese man. As he moved to the side, she kept her expression, our blue eyes meeting. "I believe I'm keeping you for your rehearsal." Meg laughed politely behind a white glove. "I will be here this evening to share your," she glanced my way again. It was hard to miss her blue gaze, being as brilliantly coloured as they were, "Great triumph." The blond turned, her blue eyes looking over her shoulder at the small maestro. "…My apologies, monsieur."

"Thank you, M. Giry, once more if you please, Signor?" Andre asked, trying to close up the conversation.

"D-did I see that look of recognition on your face, Erik?" Raoul whispered, a giggle on his breath.

"I knew her as a child, yes. She wouldn't recognize me." I lied, wanting the boy to stay away from Meg. I knew they would be a wonderful couple... but she was my childhood. _My_ little Meg.

"She didn't _see_ you." He retorted, poking me in the ribs. "You've gotten taller and as skinny as a corpse. It's a wonder you can do lifts with how thin you are."

"Shut it." I coughed, my voice becoming ominous in a warning as I saw Raoul's elder brother, Philippe give us a stern look as he walked towards the new managers. Even though there was a blood relation through Raoul being my friend... and personal friendship I had with the man, I didn't want him angry at us… he was a stern dance instructor. One of the few people I would name as a master of his craft.

The maestro chattered to the orchestra, letting all of us settle back to where we had begun. His hands raised, and the music started up a few bars before it had left off. I smoothly did a leap, landing me right where I was needed to lift my partner. Some say I had a freakish grace; in reality, I just knew how to connect one movement to the other, so that the motion flowed.

_…I had perfected pickpocketing in this manner._ I laughed inwardly, remembering my time as a homeless gypsy, right after Father had died.

For the next move, the girls went in front of the men, bound in chains to represent the slaves. I took the opportunity to read the new manager's lips. Curiosity drove me to learn this; anything dealing with the arts had plenty of gossip involved in it. Gossip meant information. Information was the key to getting an edge.

"We take a particular pride in the excellence of our ballets, monsieur." Philippe began, trying to make small talk with the two buisnessmen.

"I see why, especially that well-built fellow in the center upstage." Firmin replied, gesturing to Raoul.

"My brother." Was the curt reply. He was still obviously upset at his brother for gossiping in front of such important guests.

"And that exceptionally graceful man… no relation I trust." Andre joined in, politely adding his little complement. He looked my way; I pretended to be watching the maestro. I gained a sense that the two managers acted very much like a married couple... building off of the other. Complaining to the other. Bickering... they came into the room chattering with each other. Interesting...

"Erik Daae, promising talent M. Firmin, very promising."

I smiled at my teacher, seeing my own name grace his lips.

"D-Daae, you say? No relation to the famous Swedish violinist?" Firmin stuttered, gasping at my face. I quickly glanced away again, not wanting to be caught intruding on their conversation. My mind began to wander, thinking of music... thinking of my muse. My Angel of Music...

...I had a lesson with her tonight at one in the morning.

* * *

"His only child, orphaned at seven when he came to live and trained in the ballet dormitories." Philippe explained, a smile on his face. He was proud of the boy. What once had been a broken, effeminate soul turned into a man much like himself. They both were cynical, but refreshingly so. Many of the dancers here were into the more freer ways of thinking; the women were loose and the men were eager. Only Erik and himself abstained from it all, really. Raoul was not as wild, but still, he was just a boy.

"An orphan, you said?" Andre asked, leaning over his friend and business partner. He was clearly not up to the times; M. Daee had been dead for about fifteen years. However, the manager still held the look of genuine shock at hearing the news._ And these are the people that now own the world's greatest theater. Wonderful... _Philippe inwardly moaned._  
_

"I think of him as a brother more than I do Raoul, sometimes. That little Changy is quite the social butterfly. Erik and I share a more traits than is common for even a father-son blood relationship."

Both men laughed, looking at the two friends onstage.


	3. Chapter Two: Danse de Méfait

_I am searching for a beta. While I love to edit peer's papers, I absolutely despise looking over my own work. Sure, I do minor grammar corrections, and yes, I do have spellcheck up and running… but I enjoy having someone else's eyes run over the piece before I publish it. If you would like to edit this, or if you know someone who would like to… feel free to send me a message. _

_I also have a dislike for writing authors notes before the chapter. I know people don't really read them, (and I confess, I am one to skip them as well), but this concerns the quality of my story. _

_And I am quite anal about quality, so I would much appreciate it if I could be introduced to an editor… I happen to be an artist. It is possible that in gratitude for editing, I could draw my beta beautiful pictures…_

_

* * *

_

Erik could feel his body immersing itself into his dance. Like blood gives muscles oxygen; music gave his soul life. It delivered him into a different plane of existence entirely. Each note, chord progression, and meter was a breath, heartbeat, and flutter of wings as his very core took its dance upon the stage. There was no one else except for him and his partner. The dance wasn't simply a performance; it was an outpouring of his very being. It was a bond of the spirit, from dancer to dancer. The girl went on point in her little, slender feet as he carefully took her hips in his hands. One of her legs raised well above her shoulder. It was a smooth movement, born of hours of stretching. Erik matched her, his right hand moving beneath her thigh, raising her into the air like a goddess meeting the sky. Her arms fluttered slowly in the air, beckoning the very heavens to watch them dance.

Upon meeting the wood of the stage, her hips swayed in a bohemian fashion. It was like that of the belly-dancing gypsies, but refined and watered down to appease the Parisian audiences. Erik had never seen the gypsies before, but he had the sense to know that this was a mere copy of their art. However, since this was _Hannibal_, anything that looked remotely foreign and erotic was added to the choreography. It was what Paris wanted, but Paris didn't want to consider it so low to stoop down to the lowly level of the vulgar gypsies.

Yet, Erik's lips twitched in a hidden smile, he knew many of the girls went to the bars to perform their "can-can" dances. Vulgar. Refined. Such was this city. It seemed like everyone wore a mask of some sort.

The dance progressed. Jammes danced seductively; the women had all moved to the center stage for the men to fawn over, as it was their part in this section of the play. They were all acting as slaves, dancing to impress their king. A genuine smile crossed Erik's lips as he watched his partner dance. She had been so timid when they first met, and it was easy to see why. She was barely over five feet tall against his height of roughly six foot three inches. She too was an orphan, but she lacked the connections that Erik had obtained through friendship with Raoul. At first, she was cripplingly shy. The little girl had eyes like a doe about to be struck with an arrow every time Phillipe even said her name aloud. After their fist dance together as assigned partners though, she relaxed considerably.

_"You seem like the whole world becomes a dance whenever you hear music." _she had laughed. _"I was afraid you were going to drop me or I step on your feet."_

_"I do enjoy music." _Erik laughed, watching her handicap of xenophobia melt before his eyes. Joseph Boquet had once tried to lay his hands all over her, but Erik came into the room and simply stared at the man. His malachite green eyes glowing with the holy light of an avenging angel. The other man had instantly wet himself out of fear, (and possibly due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed), and ran off. Since that moment, Erik and Jammes had been more than just dance partners, but kin. His instinct to protect the little girl was much like an older brother, and the converse was true. Jammes always had a knack for knowing when Erik was upset. She also sometimes played the role of an annoying little sister...

Piangi's overly nasal tone broke the stream of pleasant thoughts, as Erik's sanctuary of music was brought to a painful halt.

_Mon Dieu, is he out of tune..._

Carlotta gave her husband a harsh look, but he was too busy singing to notice. His arms were stretched out as if he was waiting for an embrace. The intended target?—none other than my little Meg. The lead soprano practically screeched her lines as the solo became a duet. Thankfully, this was my cue to exit to the wings. Carlotta attempted to get him back in tune, but her voice only gained more vibrato the louder it got. The result was even more horrendous; it sounded more like a band of three drunks instead of two trained professionals. I could only look to the heavens and sigh. It was just under my tolerance threshold. Anymore, and I'd fake an injury to make it stop; I was so desperate to be released from this torture.

However, something in the rafters made me start. It looked like a will o' wisp of sorts make by the lights, due to its thin frame. All of the stage crew that worked up above were burly men; their upper body strength was what landed them the job. No, this looked to be a shadow of a woman or young boy. They wore pants, jabot, and a coat that was styled to look like a layered bustle. Whoever they were didn't belong there…

Unless it was…

The figure turned profile again, and I heard myself gasp. It was clearly a woman, and it was clear she was in a mask. It had a long nose, much like a traditional plague doctor's mask. She procured a wicked, hooked knife from her hip and crouched down, looked at the actors in the stage. Frantically, I searched for the source of the shadow, trying to find this would-be assassin. When I looked back at the shadow, she was still crouched, knife in hand,

And she put a finger to her lips.

For some reason, I slowly nodded. It was almost as if this mysterious person above me was a puppet master, making my head bob in assent. I could feel the heat drain away from my face and fingers. Her presence was terrifying, even to me, a man considered strong and intimidating. I felt, more than saw Raoul come to my side. I was too distracted, staring at the shadow as she cut something. I couldn't quite make it out.

"Friend?" he laughed, "Does this 'music' really make you look this sick, or is there something else wrong?" Oh Raoul, how you make the most terrible situations sound jovial. Snapping out of my terror, I realized that a backdrop above was shaking ever so slightly.

"Step back from the stage a bit Raoul." I whispered, trying to keep my voice even.

"Why? I'm not within view, am I? Brother is always getting on my case for doi-" I pulled him back, taking a few steps backwards myself.

"What are you-" he began, but was cut off when a young dancer girl screamed. The painted scene that I had seen fluttering suddenly came crashing down on none other than the singing fat man. When his torso connected with the stage, I felt a vibration in my feet. Despite myself, my face cracked a small smirk.

"IT'SA ZE OPERAH GOST!" Piangi roared in his tiny, high pitched Italian-accent. All eyes suddenly widened, looking frantically around for any sign of the apparition. I watched as the shadow pantomimed a hearty laugh and slapped a hand on her knee. The knife was nowhere to be seen.

A bony elbow prodded my ribs. "E-Erik?" Raoul whispered, almost as frightened as I. "Was that what you were staring at?" His voice quivered and cracked, making him sound like the young boy I had met all those years ago when I first joined the troupe.

I was silent, still stunned at what just transpired.


End file.
